As It Should Be
by Boogum
Summary: Ginny resisted the urge to approach him. What was she supposed to say? Hi, are you that bigoted twat I used to know at school? You know, the one who was a Death Eater and whose family only switched sides at the end of the war to save their own skins? Wow, golly gee, fancy seeing you in Nice. Yeah. She'd skip on that conversation.
1. Chapter 1

This story was written for **LiJuno** in **The DG Forum Fic Exchange - Summer 2017.** Big thank you to Rowan for beta-reading!

* * *

The breeze felt nice. Ginny leaned back on her chair, letting the sun soak into her skin. No doubt she would gain many new freckles on her bare arms and shoulders. Whatever. The sun felt good, and being outside was better than being stuck in the hotel. Promenade des Anglais had lived up to its reputation: exotic palm trees, an expanse of blue water, and while the pebble beach wasn't ideal, the place was lively and picturesque. She couldn't complain, though she had to admit she was already getting a bit restless. Sticking in one place had never been easy for her.

Ginny shut the notebook on her lap and closed her eyes, trying to make herself relax. The salty scent of the sea tickled her senses, intermingled with the delicious smells coming from the restaurants and cafés that lined the promenade. Mmm, coffee and food. Her stomach grumbled. On second thought, maybe she should get something to eat.

She opened one eye to glance at her watch and saw it was well past noon. No wonder she was hungry. Still, Ginny felt some hesitance. Just a little, of course. It wasn't like she was a coward; it was just, uh, she was beginning to realise that maybe she should have listened to Hermione and taken her French studies more seriously. Nice was a lovely place: good climate, good places to eat, and enough tourists came to the area to make it doable to survive without knowing much of the language. Still, communicating with people was not easy. She had been winging things for the most part—lots of caveman French and hand gestures. Fact was, studying had never been her forte. She was all about the excitement and enjoyment.

" _Why can't you just settle down? Why do you always have to make things so difficult?"_

Ginny's brow creased. Her mother's words had been bugging her more often of late. There had been many disagreements between the two since things with Harry had fallen apart; that tension had only got worse as "Wild Weasley", as _Witch Weekly_ liked to call the younger redhead, started appearing more and more in the magazines. All the photographs of her flings and drunken escapades probably hadn't helped. Still, it wasn't like Ginny intended to go around upsetting people, least of all her mother. She just hadn't found her spark: the thing, person, place—whatever it might be—to give her a reason to anchor the ship that was her life. So she didn't; it was as simple as that. Besides, the thought of settling down with some vanilla guy just to keep the peace made a part of her shrivel up and die. She'd rather eat a whole box of earwax flavoured Bertie Bott's Beans.

Her stomach grumbled again. Speaking of eating, she needed food. Ginny gathered her belongings and wandered down the promenade. There were plenty of cafés and restaurants to tempt her fancy, but she ended up going with Chez Vero. The vibe was more casual and it had those stereotypical French chequered tablecloths; that tickled her.

Ginny greeted the workers with a friendly "bonjour" and took her seat at one of the tables. She flicked through the menu, but of course it wasn't like she could understand all the French. Never mind, she'd just fall back on the old "what's your special?" trick. Now to try not to butcher it too much.

"Um," she began a bit awkwardly. "Quelle est la … uh … spéci—spécialité du jour?"

The waiter smiled and pointed out to her the day's special. Ginny wanted to pat herself on the back; her pronunciation had probably sucked, but she had been understood. Success! She got the special and a coffee to drink. Soon, she was enjoying her food and gazing out the window at the people passing by. The lunch rush had already passed, so the café wasn't overly busy. Only a few of the other tables were occupied. So when a tall man with white-blond hair walked through the doors and greeted the workers, she couldn't help but find her eyes drawn to him.

Her first thought was that he seemed kind of familiar. Then she got a proper look at his face and her jaw dropped. That had to be Draco Malfoy. Bloody hell, she'd hardly recognised him. He was wearing casual Muggle clothes and his hair was longer and had been pulled back into a ponytail, though some parts had come loose. His face wasn't so pointed now either; he'd grown into his angular features, losing that pinched, bratty look from his teens, but he was still all sharpness and high cheekbones. She couldn't decide if she found him attractive or not. She'd always preferred the roguish sporty type or the cute-guy-next-door look; Malfoy had a harsh beauty. He had the face of someone who should be posing on the cover of a high fashion magazine or striding down a catwalk, not standing in a cosy Muggle café in Nice.

Actually, why the hell was he in a Muggle café? She knew why she had chosen to travel Muggle, but Malfoy was the last person she had expected to see in Chez Vero. Maybe it wasn't him. Maybe it was just a look-alike guy. It wouldn't be so farfetched, right? Heck, the last time she'd seen Malfoy had been at Hogwarts—just before his hearing. That had been five or so years ago.

The guy's gaze caught hers. His eyes widened and he stared at her for a moment before busying himself with the menu. She pursed her lips. Now she was curious. A stranger wouldn't react like that to seeing her, would he? But then if she was wrong …

Ginny resisted the urge to approach him. What was she supposed to say? Hi, are you that bigoted twat I used to know at school? You know, the one who was a Death Eater and whose family only switched sides at the end of the war to save their own skins? Wow, golly gee, fancy seeing you in Nice.

…

Yeah. She'd skip on that conversation.

Still, Ginny couldn't help but find her gaze flickering to the blond. Their eyes met more than a few times; apparently, he was having just as much trouble not staring. It gave her an odd thrill, like playing a game only the two of them knew about. She had to admit to feeling a bit disappointed when she finished her coffee and was able to pay for her meal. This man had presented so many questions—ones her natural curiosity wanted answered. Too bad she couldn't think of a good excuse to talk to him.

Ginny walked his way as she headed for the door. Maybe it was because she was too busy staring at the guy instead of watching where she walked; maybe it was the old lady's fault for letting her parasol stick out so much from under the nearby table. Either way, Ginny's foot snagged and she lost her balance. Her stomach plummeted. There was a loud screech as a chair was forced back. A hand grabbed her elbow and tugged, steadying her back to her feet even as she bumped into a man's chest. Her breath caught in her throat—mostly out of relief because she'd been spared falling flat on her face, but also from finding herself inches from the object of her curiosity.

"Thanks," she murmured.

He released her elbow and stepped back, merely nodding as if to say it was no problem. Now that they were this close, she could see that his eyes were indeed grey just like Malfoy's had been. There was also a tiny smear of blue on his cheek. Paint? A glance at his fingers revealed more speckles—especially around his nails. An artist? That only stirred her curiosity more. This man looked so much like Malfoy, yet nothing she had seen of him so far seemed to add up with her image of the bigoted arse from her school days. Well, except for his reflexes.

"You're pretty quick," she observed.

He shrugged. "Just happened to be close."

She blinked. He had a British accent; sounded like he was from South West England as well. Her gaze dropped to his left forearm where she knew the scarred remnant of a Dark Mark would be tattooed—at least if he was Malfoy. The long sleeve of his shirt covered the area. That was frustrating; all she wanted was some proof. The man noticed where she was looking and rubbed his hand over the spot in an involuntary gesture, as if he wanted to reassure himself the fabric was there. Her brow furrowed.

"Anyway," he muttered, turning away from her. "Watch where you're going next time."

"Hey, wait—"

He threw her a cool stare over his shoulder as if to tell her to back off. She pursed her lips. Now that look was all Malfoy.

"Don't we know each other?" she asked.

His eyebrow rose a fraction. It was the kind of look that could have been scornful or surprised that she was even asking. Eventually, he turned his back on her once more.

"Don't know what you're talking about," he said flatly. "I've got nothing to do with you."

Ginny let out a breath. He walked to his table and sat down, not sparing her another glance. She resisted the impulse to march over and keep questioning him—to confirm once and for all if he was the person she thought. His dismissal had been blunt; even she couldn't justify pushing the issue. She'd just look pathetic if she tried.

Frowning, she hoisted the strap of her bag more comfortably on her shoulder and exited the café. It was hard not to look back at him. In fact, her thoughts kept drifting to the blond long afterwards. He intrigued her—or at least the possibility that he might be Draco Malfoy intrigued her. It was like being gifted with a puzzle that she itched to put together. All the contradictions, all the similarities. Was it him? Was it just a random Muggle who looked like him? The questions buzzed in her mind, but they also frustrated her. She had never given a damn about Draco Malfoy. There was no reason for her to be so caught up on this guy now.

But his behaviour had piqued her.

But just the thought of him was like lights flickering in bursts of colour in her mind, demanding her attention in a way she couldn't ignore.

Was he? Wasn't he? She wanted to know.

Ginny made a frustrated sound and kept walking, forcing herself to think about her plans for the day. She had come to France for a holiday, not stress about some harsh-faced blond who may or may not be the same twat from her school days. It wasn't like she wanted anything from him except to satisfy her own curiosity. The guy had been a bit of a prat anyway.

In the end, she chose to go to the Musée d'Art Moderne et d'Art Contemporain. It was supposed to be a popular attraction, and so far the scenery of Nice had done nothing to give her much inspiration. Maybe looking at modern art would do the trick. Laurie, her Muggle-born friend, had certainly sung its praises when she had recommended Nice as a holiday spot. Ginny chose not to dwell on the fact that she had only considered the option now because Mr Mystery Blond had appeared to be an artist of some sort.

She made her way through the exhibitions and had to admit that she wasn't sure if modern art was her thing. Some of it was interesting, but some of it was just weird and didn't seem to make much sense. The paintings that only featured a few dots or lines were hardly impressive, and the sculpture of a giant baby head had just creeped her out. Still, at least these people had found their passion. That was something she could appreciate: the drive that had pushed these artists to keep creating, keep expressing, keep doing anything to get their name out there and cement their career. In truth, it made her a little jealous. She couldn't even figure out what she wanted.

A sigh escaped her lips. She sat down on one of the benches and brought out the notebook and no-ink quill from her bag. Laurie had told her she should try writing—even if it was just to document her experiences. Laurie said it would help her gather her thoughts. Ginny had been pretty half-hearted about the whole thing so far—writing journal-ish type entries reminded her of bad memories—but then maybe that was the point. Ginny often liked to ignore the unpleasant things in her life.

"Excusez-moi."

She raised her face to see a man with curly brown hair smiling down at her. He looked older than her, but he was also kind of cute—all boyish charm and warm brown eyes. Not bad. Then he said something else in French and she didn't understand a word of it. Damn.

"Uh." She cleared her throat. "Je ne comprends pas. Je parle … uh, I don't really speak French."

He laughed. "British?"

"Yeah."

"Lucky I speak some English then." He gestured to the space next to her on the bench. "May I?"

Ginny moved her bag so he could sit down. They exchanged names—his was Amaury—and chatted about what had brought her to Nice. He was a charming guy, albeit a little difficult to understand sometimes thanks to his thick accent and the moments when he broke into French. Still, the company was nice. A deity out there must have heard her prayer to ease her restlessness. When he offered to show her around the city, she didn't even have to think about it. He was easy on the eyes and having a French speaker would be helpful.

They left the art museum together and got on Amaury's scooter. She had to confess she'd never ridden one of the vehicles before, so Amaury explained a bit about what to expect and then handed her a dorky looking helmet. She turned her nose up at the helmet but put it on as requested; Muggles probably wouldn't understand that scooters weren't much of a threat for a witch. Still, what she didn't mind was sitting snugly behind him on the bike or wrapping her arms around his middle. He smelt nice. Really nice.

 _Keep it together, Ginny,_ she scolded.

Although it was a half-hearted scold at best. She'd known from the moment he'd offered to show her around where this would lead.

They weaved their way through the streets on the scooter, cutting traffic and ducking down narrow roads that cars would have never been able to navigate. Amaury pointed out interesting buildings and other sites; he especially liked drawing her attention to the street art on display. Ginny had to admit it was fun, even if she didn't always share his taste in art or understand everything he said. He was chatty and flirty, and he made her laugh. Sure, a part of her knew she had just latched onto another distraction—and one that definitely would not last—but so what? Maybe a distraction was what she needed right now. To laugh, to flirt, to indulge in a foreplay of words and innocent touches that she knew would only be a prelude to what would happen later between the bedsheets.

As the French said: mangez bien, riez souvent, aimez beaucoup.

Eat well, laugh often, love abundantly.

Life was to be enjoyed. She had come to Nice to have a break and figure things out, but one little fling wouldn't hurt. At the very least, it would stop her from thinking about that prat of a blond from the café. She'd rather have her thoughts filled with Amaury and his warm brown eyes than some tosser who might be Draco Malfoy—even if the guy had stopped her from falling flat on her face.

"Hey," Amaury called over his shoulder. "You mind if we make a quick stop?"

Ginny said it was fine with her. Amaury thanked her and headed down a few alleys until they came to a small area that was covered in street art. He parked the scooter and got off, gesturing for her to follow. She frowned but joined him. A few people were milling about. Someone was playing a guitar. She had no idea why Amaury had wanted to come here.

"Found you!" Amaury exclaimed.

She blinked and followed the direction of his gaze. Her body tensed when she noticed the same blond from Chez Vero crouching in front of one of the art displays: a rather dark piece featuring Muggle war machines and human-like forms all lined up as if at a firing range. His cool grey eyes appraised her for a moment before shifting to Amaury. He picked up his bag and got to his feet.

"Are you stalking me now?" the blond demanded.

Amaury grinned. "It's your fault for being so predictable. I knew you'd be here." The corners of his mouth drooped. "Besides, you didn't turn up for the meeting."

"I told you I wouldn't."

"But—"

The blond swung his bag over his shoulder. "Look, I don't want to go public." He turned his back on them. "Just leave me alone already."

"Wait, wait, wait, wait." Amaury grabbed the man's arm before he could leave. "Draco, you know—"

"Draco?" Ginny repeated. She stared at the blond with slightly accusing eyes. "So it _is_ you! Why'd you lie to me?"

He sighed in a way that grated on her ears. "It's called giving a hint, Weasley. Maybe you should take it."

She raised her eyebrow. "Still a stuck up bastard, huh?"

"Still a nosy bint."

Amaury blinked at the two of them. "You two know each other?"

"Sure," Ginny said before Malfoy could say otherwise. "We went to school together, though he was a year ahead of me."

Amaury suddenly gripped her shoulders. "Then, Ginny, please persuade him to let us be his patron!"

Now it was her turn to blink. "Um, what?"

"This guy is a genius! He could be the next Ernest Pignon-Ernest, but instead he says that art is just a hobby and he doesn't want to share his work." Amaury pressed his hand to his head and muttered something in French that sounded rather dramatic. Perhaps he was bemoaning his would-be protégé's stubbornness.

Ginny edged back from the Frenchman. "Uh, I think you have the wrong idea. Malfoy and I aren't friends. We never were."

"But—"

Malfoy rolled his eyes at the both of them. "I'm leaving."

"Wait, wait, wait." Amaury once more latched onto the blond's arm. "Let's not be hasty, alright? This is a once in a lifetime opportunity, Draco. We're willing to give you a chance to exhibit your art and get your career going. Do you know how many artists would kill to be in your position?"

"Then ask one of them," Malfoy said bluntly. "I don't need or want your offer."

"Why?"

Both men blinked at Ginny. Perhaps they had not expected the interruption.

"Excuse me?" Malfoy said, raising his eyebrow.

"Why don't you want to share your art?" she elaborated. "Seems kind of weird to put in all that effort and then not do anything with it."

His jaw tightened. "That's none of your business."

"I'm just saying. Amaury seems to think you're pretty good." She shrugged. "Don't you think it's a waste to turn him down?"

"Yes, yes, exactly!" Amaury nodded in approval at her. "It would be a complete waste of talent!"

Malfoy ignored the Frenchman. "What's it to you?" he asked Ginny. "Why should you care what I do?"

"I don't," she admitted. "I just get the feeling that maybe you really do like art."

She couldn't imagine him walking around with paint stains on his fingers or examining Muggle street art if that wasn't the case. Not the ever-immaculate, Muggle-hating Malfoy.

"I just don't understand why you'd turn down this opportunity," she continued. "I mean, if this is your passion then don't you want to make a career out of it?"

The look he gave her could have turned a Basilisk to stone. Ginny didn't understand what his deal was with her. Was he just a moody bastard all the time? Was there something she was missing?

"What are you even doing here?" Malfoy demanded, apparently deciding that turning the conversation on her was preferable to defending himself.

"Amaury invited me," she said, raising her chin. "Got a problem with that?"

"Yeah, actually." Malfoy turned on the other man. "It's bad enough you stalked me here, but why'd you bring her?"

"Elle est bonne," Amaury said with a shrug.

Ginny wasn't sure what that meant, but it made Malfoy roll his eyes and mutter something that sounded suspiciously like "horny bastard" under his breath. She decided not to ask for enlightenment. Besides, Amaury was far more interested in wooing Malfoy to become his protégé.

"Isn't there anything I can do to make you reconsider?" Amaury asked. "Anything at all?"

Malfoy met his gaze coolly. "Yeah. Piss off."

The blond turned and left on the words, if not rather stompily. Amaury didn't try to stop him this time. Ginny could only stare at Malfoy's retreating figure. A Slytherin turning down favours and behaving with zero attempt at subtlety? That wasn't like him at all.

"What's his problem?" she muttered.

Amaury pinched the bridge of his nose. "I wish I knew. He's always been difficult, but never like this. Maybe I was too pushy." A sigh escaped his lips and he again muttered something in French.

She looked at the older man curiously. "Is he really that good?"

"See for yourself."

He reached into his pocket and brought out a Muggle device she recognised as a mobile phone. He flicked through the menu until he brought up a picture that had clearly been taken without Malfoy's awareness: a bit of Malfoy's hair, profile and shoulder were in the frame, and his hand was covering a part of the canvas, brush still in hand. But she could see the image he had been creating: an abstract depiction of a person in grey tones, with hints of green splintering through. The colour of the death curse. It was like a scream captured in picture; it was an echo of the war—of what _he_ experienced in the war. Looking at it made her feel trapped and lost and hopeless. Something hollow formed in her stomach.

"It's amazing, right?" Amaury said. "So intense, so much feeling. The weight of it just hits you."

Ginny swallowed against the sudden dryness in her mouth. "Maybe he feels it's too personal to share."

Even she felt a bit uncomfortable looking at it, like she'd caught a glimpse into his soul and wasn't sure what to do with the knowledge now. She'd always thought the Malfoys had just been out to save their own skins once they'd realised it would be more beneficial to support Harry. Maybe that was even true, but Draco Malfoy's art suggested that wasn't the full story.

"Art is an expression," Amaury responded simply. "That's what makes it interesting: all the pieces that the artist puts of him or herself into the image—we want to figure it out. We ask ourselves what it means, why the artist chose those colours, that lighting, this perspective." He gestured at the image. "Draco's voice is unique. He shouldn't silence it."

She shrugged. "Can't help you there. He seemed pretty set on not going public."

"That's what worries me. He's so stubborn."

Ginny said nothing. It wasn't like she knew how he could persuade Malfoy. Just meeting the blond again had made her see she didn't know him half as well as she'd thought; all she had were assumptions and judgements made from what she'd glimpsed of him at Hogwarts. Didn't change the fact he was still a stuck up bastard.

"Well," Amaury said, flashing a smile. "I'll figure something out. I refuse to let someone so talented slip through my fingers."

"You're really determined, huh?"

"Art can be as captivating as love. When it speaks to you, you can't help but pursue it."

Ginny bit back a smile of her own. "Good luck with that."

He was going to need it if he wanted to win Malfoy over. Amaury grimaced, perhaps realising the same thing. They headed back to his scooter and he asked her if she wanted to join him for dinner. She was happy enough to accept—even with the detour so he could talk to Malfoy, both were aware of what they were hoping to get from each other. Besides, she had to admit she was a little curious to know how Amaury had got involved with the blond. Maybe she could learn more about why Malfoy was in Nice; it wasn't like Malfoy had been forthcoming with her.

Well, at least it would be a distraction.

* * *

 **LiJuno's Prompt (#1)**

 **Basic premise:** Draco and Ginny surprisingly meet in France, where they discover unexpected aspects of the other or basically find out just how little they actually know about each other (or themselves?).

 **Must haves:** While romance may spark, I'm looking more for a believable finding of mutual respect/care; they should be in their early twenties.

 **No-no's:** Draco/Pansy; Ginny/Harry may have happened, but is not current.

 **Rating range:** Any.

 **Bonus points:** A coastal scene, some French skills.


	2. Chapter 2

"This is your fault, you know," Ginny muttered.

Malfoy's gaze flickered to her. The two of them sat drinking at the bar in Wayne's, the British pub where Amaury had taken her for dinner. Amaury had claimed it would be nice for her to get a small taste of home, but she'd realised pretty quickly that the Frenchman had just been hoping to run into the blond again. Unfortunately, they'd also run into Amaury's girlfriend. Or was it one of his flings? It was hard to tell. The two had been speaking in rapid French, so she hadn't been able to follow their conversation. Either way, Amaury had ditched Ginny to appease the woman. Now Ginny was left with Malfoy.

"Such a pain," she groaned under her breath.

"No one is making you stay," Malfoy pointed out. He took a sip of his drink. "In fact, I'd prefer it if you didn't."

She rolled her eyes and sat up straighter. "You're just a bundle of civility, aren't you?"

"You're the ones who stalked me here."

" _I_ wasn't stalking you." Ginny huffed and went back to scowling at the amber liquid in her glass. "I don't give a rat's arse what you do, but if you'd just accepted Amaury's offer earlier, I doubt he would have bothered to come here. Then we wouldn't have met Pissy Poodle Head."

Malfoy made a sound that might have been a repressed snort. "Pissy Poodle Head?"

She pointed at the woman sitting across from Amaury at one of the tables. "Look at her hair. It's so … poodle-y."

Malfoy glanced at the curly-haired woman, then to Ginny, and then to the cup of alcohol in her hand. His eyebrow rose a fraction.

"What?" she demanded.

He shrugged. "Nothing."

"Don't give me that judgey look. I know what you're thinking, and you're wrong. I'm not drunk." She let out a big sigh. "I'm just disappointed."

Malfoy ignored her. That was a bit irritating. He could at least have the decency to ask her why.

She pressed her forehead against her glass, enjoying the coolness, and cast a sidelong look at the blond. He was frowning at his drink and seemed lost in his own thoughts. Geez, she might as well be invisible for all the attention he paid her. That piqued her a little, but it also made her curious. From what she'd gleaned from Amaury, Malfoy had come to Nice roughly three weeks ago. He hadn't revealed much about his purpose for visiting or anything much about himself—all except for the fact that he was interested in different art styles.

She took in his profile, noting the loose strands of hair that got in his eyes and tickled his neck. He had such long, long eyelashes; it was easy to miss since they were so light, but she could see the tips dusting his cheeks as he looked down. She had an odd urge to touch him—to make his eyelashes flutter so that he would turn his gaze upon her. Then she noticed the faint smear of ochre on his jaw and her hand was moving before she even realised what she was doing.

"You still have paint on you," she observed, tracing her finger along the strip of colour.

His gaze met hers. She felt a tiny thrill that she had got him to look at her. Not that the blond seemed too pleased.

"Don't touch me," he said bluntly.

"Why?" She quirked her eyebrow. "Afraid you'll get tainted with my Weasley hands?"

He rolled his eyes and took another sip of his drink. Ginny waited for his retort, but none came. She let out a stroppy huff.

"C'mon, Malfoy," she said, grabbing his arm, "you gotta work with me here. I'm bored out of my mind, and thanks to you I'm not going to get laid tonight." She rested her chin on his shoulder. "Talk to meeee."

He shrugged her off. "Your failed sex life is not my problem, Weasley."

"I beg to differ. Everything was going great until we ran into you in that street. Amaury is so obsessed with you; it was just you, you, you after that." She went back to cradling her glass. "You know, all I wanted was a nice distraction. Amaury fit the bill: good-looking, funny, charming. It would have been perfect had you not ruined things."

"Except he already has someone," Malfoy reminded her. "Would you have really been okay with that?"

Ginny considered the matter. "I wouldn't have even known about Pissy Poodle Head, so yeah. Ignorance is bliss and all that." She waved her hand in an airy manner.

The corners of his mouth twitched. Another thrill swept through her at the sight. She'd almost made him smile. It was oddly satisfying, like winning over a particularly grumpy cat.

"You're not what I expected," he said after a moment.

"Well, neither are you. I mean, since when does Draco Malfoy travel Muggle?"

His expression closed off, becoming grim and frosted once more. Ginny probably should have stopped there, but she was a little tipsy—just a little, of course—and taking hints had never been her strong point. She nudged him in the arm.

"Why _are_ you travelling like a Muggle?" she asked more seriously.

Nothing.

Another nudge. "Malfoy—"

He threw her an irritated glance. "I could ask you the same question."

Ginny slumped back on the stool. "I wanted a break," she admitted. "From the moment I broke off my engagement to Harry, the tabloids have been after me. Every new guy, every little thing I do—it's all there for people to dissect and discuss." She blew her fringe out of her face. "I'm the biggest slut of the wizarding world right now; I hurt their precious saviour and betrayed everyone's dream to see a happy Potter wedding." Her voice turned bitter. "I couldn't even come to France without a bloody article appearing. So I thought, screw it. I'm not going to put up with this anymore; I'll just travel Muggle and then people can't find me."

Malfoy was silent. He didn't even look at her.

"Are you listening to me?" she demanded.

His eyes met hers. "What do you want me to say? That I'm sorry?" He laughed without humour and took a sip of his drink. "Your petty problems don't interest me, Weasley."

"Petty? Do you know how frustrating it is to—"

"The whole wizarding world still sees me as a Death Eater," he cut in flatly. "I think being called a slut is pretty harmless in comparison."

Ginny swallowed. She didn't have a response for that. Even if her problems were frustrating to her, it wasn't like she was being labelled a criminal. People gossiped about her, and some enterprising ladies had sent Howlers and threats, but no one was scared of her. They didn't question whether she was fit to work, to even live in the community with others; they didn't wonder if she should have been locked up for life or just given the Dementor's Kiss.

"Is that why you're travelling Muggle?" she asked. "Because of how people react to you?"

He sighed and took a much longer swig of his drink. "Forget it."

"I can't just forget it when you bring it up."

Malfoy said nothing. She pursed her lips and leaned closer.

"You know, I'll admit I was doubtful about whether you'd actually changed. You and your family switched sides at a pretty convenient time; it makes people wonder." She shook her head. "Still, Harry testified on your behalf at the hearing, and he wouldn't have done that without good reason."

A faint sneer twisted his lips. "So you wouldn't trust me if it wasn't for Potter's backing?"

Ginny rolled her eyes. "Here's an idea: how about you let me finish before you butt in with your snobbish bastardness?"

He gave her an unimpressed look but didn't say anything. She took that as a sign to continue.

"Look," she said, propping herself on her elbow. "All I'm saying is that people are gonna judge you regardless of whether it's justified or not. We all know you were supposed to be convicted for attempted murder and the usage of Unforgivable Curses. We also know you got a much lighter sentence. Fact is, people don't like that. They don't care if you were young, if you were coerced, if Harry bloody Potter testified for you. They're still grieving from loss; they still remember the pain and fear the Death Eaters caused, and they remember that _you_ were one of them; that's all that matters."

"Thanks, Weasley," he said dryly. "I feel all better now after that pep talk."

"I'm not finished."

He rolled his eyes and averted his face. "Is there even a point to this?"

"Yes."

She gripped his chin and forced him to look back at her. He was so surprised by her boldness that he didn't resist.

"Yes, there is a point," she said more softly. "Because even if people will treat you like scum and make you wonder why you bother, there are those who will see that you don't deserve all the hate. Like when I talk to you now, like when Amaury showed me your art."

Malfoy raised his eyebrow. "You really are drunk, aren't you?"

"I'm not drunk!"

A few of the neighbouring people gathered at the bar glanced at them. Ginny felt her cheeks warm. Oops. That had been louder than she'd intended.

"I'm not," she said more quietly. "I just get it, okay? I get what you're going through and I think it sucks. It's not fair on you at all."

He gave her a flat look. "You get it?"

"Yes."

"You, Ginevra Weasley."

"What has who I am got to do with anything?"

"Do I even need to spell it out?"

When she just stared at him expectantly, he sighed and ran a hand over his face.

"We're not the same, Weasley. Being able to say that you get it—that's a luxury. Those are the kind of pretty words a person in your position can toss around."

"And what the hell is that supposed to mean?"

He shook his head. "Forget it."

"Again with the forget its." She made a frustrated sound. "You know, you really are so—so—"

Malfoy downed the rest of his drink and then called for another. Her eyes widened in outrage. Bastard was just going to ignore her again, huh?

"At least listen to me when I talk," she snapped.

"You're the one who forced your company on me," he pointed out. "I didn't ask for it and I don't want it."

Ginny resisted the urge to toss her drink in his face. That would be petty and a waste of alcohol. Instead, she reminded him that he owed her—at least to keep her company for a while. Malfoy was even less impressed and demanded to know how she'd come to that conclusion.

"Because you're the reason I'm stuck at this bar with you instead of with Amaury."

Malfoy pinched the bridge of his nose with his forefinger and thumb. "For the last bloody time, that has nothing to do with me. I don't control his actions; I didn't make him come here."

"Details schmetails." She waved her hand as if to flick away his words. "Point is we did come here, and now he's ditched me for Pissy Poodle Head, and I don't know anyone else here but you."

"There are plenty of people in this pub, Weasley. Go try your luck with one of them if you're that desperate for sex."

She glowered at him. "I'm not desperate."

He gave her another one of those flat looks, as if to remind her that she was the one who had been complaining because she wouldn't get laid tonight. Ginny raised her chin. Wanting a fling with a hot, flirty guy did not make her desperate. She told that to Malfoy as well, because being tipsy often made her lose what little filter she had, and he was getting on her nerves. She would have him know that she didn't get with just anyone; Amaury just happened to catch her eye. Anyway, if he was going to call her desperate because she wanted to get off with a hot guy when she was in the mood for it, he could just piss off to Judgey Arsehold Land where he belonged. She wasn't going to put up with that crap from him.

"So there," she finished.

Then she sculled the rest of her drink and slammed the empty glass on the bench. Malfoy's mouth did that twitchy thing again. She caught the movement and pointed her finger at him.

"A-ha!" she exclaimed. "You almost smiled just then."

His expression flattened. "I don't know what you're talking about."

"Oh, yeah?" She poked him in the corner of his mouth. "What was that little upturned corner then, huh?" She poked him again. "Face it, Malfoy, I caught you out."

He swatted her hand away. "It's a tic."

"Tic my arse." She leaned forward so they were inches apart, her eyes dancing. "You were amused. Just admit it."

He pressed his palm to her forehead and pushed her away. "You reek of booze."

"So do you."

He snorted. "I'm nowhere near as drunk as you."

"I'm not drunk."

"Uh-huh. Keep telling yourself that."

She pursed her lips. He had gone back to nursing his drink and not looking at her. That wasn't right. She wanted his eyes on her. Maybe that desire should have bothered her, but it was a fact that he made her tingle with little thrills every time she won his attention. It was a challenge. _He_ was a challenge: a puzzle that taunted and teased, begging to be put together. She wanted to see more—to understand the man she had only glimpsed through unguarded moments and layers of paint. To make him smile for real.

Or, you know, maybe she was just looking for a new distraction.

Ginny called for another drink and met his eyes with a challenging grin. "I bet I can outdrink you."

"You're already drunk," he said, shaking his head. "Don't be stupid."

"Oh, are you worried about me? That's cute."

He rolled his eyes. "Don't put words in my mouth, Weasley. I'm just feeling generous and decided to spare you the defeat."

"Really?" She leaned forward on her elbows, giving him a nice view of her cleavage if he had cared to look (he didn't, and that kind of pissed her off as well). "I think you're just scared you might lose."

He met her gaze. "I'm not scared. I just don't feel like getting drunk with you."

"Hate to break it to you, Malfoy, but that's what you've been doing with me for most of the night."

"I am drinking at a bar," he corrected. "You are a woman sitting next to me who won't shut up."

Ginny picked up her refilled glass. "That's bollocks and you know it. If you really didn't want me around, you could have just left and been done with it. There's nothing holding you to that chair." She flashed her teeth in a smile. "Just admit it: you don't mind my company. I think you're even a little interested in me."

"Don't delude yourself. I just like this spot and can't be bothered moving."

"Uh-huh," she said in a mocking echo of his words. "You keep telling yourself that."

He muttered something under his breath and went back to drinking. She smiled, sensing that she had got a foothold in his defences. Bit by bit he was weakening to her. Still, talking to him was like trying to draw out a hermit crab. He'd take the bait for a little bit before quickly retreating into his shell. That was frustrating, but she had to admit it was also part of the reason why she was still sitting on the chair next to him. She'd always enjoyed the thrill of the chase.

"So, what's with the hair?" she asked, tugging on the blond strands that had come loose from his ponytail.

He once more swatted her fingers away. "Are you just incapable of keeping your hands to yourself?"

"I like to touch things that interest me." She wiggled her eyebrows. "You can interpret that how you like."

Malfoy rested his chin on his palm and considered her through unreadable eyes. She noticed that there were tiny flecks of blue in his irises.

"You should probably stop drinking now," he advised.

"Huh? Why?"

"Because you're trying to flirt with me." He brought his glass close to his lips, though he didn't take a sip. "Pretty pathetically, I might add."

Ginny snorted. "I'm wounded."

He said nothing.

She leaned closer, pressing her breasts against his arm. "Don't pretend you haven't considered it." Her lips brushed his ear as she softened her voice. "It could be fun, you know? Just think about it: past enemies becoming lovers for a night; the sex would have to be something." She played with the top button of his shirt. "I'll even let you draw me like your French girls." Then she sat back and laughed. "Or something like that."

Malfoy met her gaze with that same unreadable expression.

"Well?" she prompted. "How'd I do that time? Feeling turned on yet?"

He calmly took the glass of alcohol from her hand and then called for the bartender to give them some water. Ginny blinked at him in a mixture of pique and confusion. All that and he couldn't even give her a response—not even a flirty rejoinder?

"What the hell, Malfoy?" she exclaimed in faint tones of disgust. "What's with the responsible grandfather act? You're going to kill my buzz at this rate."

"Good."

Her mouth opened and closed, giving her the unflattering likeness of a fish out of water.

"Besides," he continued, "I don't follow the cliché of painting nudes. You'll just have to get your kicks another way." He swirled the amber liquid around the inside of his glass. "I hear Amaury is a fan of that style. Oh, wait. Amaury ditched you for another woman. Guess you're out of luck there as well."

She narrowed her eyes. He was teasing her, but not in the way she had hoped. Bastard had just flexed his claws.

Ginny plastered a smile on her lips. "You know I was kidding, Malfoy. I don't want to have sex with you."

No response.

Her brow furrowed and she snatched her glass back from him. "Also, you don't need to monitor me. I'll drink what I wanna drink; I don't need you interfering."

This time he did look at her, though his expression could only be described as exasperated. "Weasley, just drink the damn water and stop acting like a brat."

"Who's acting like a brat?" She poked him in the chest. "You're the one acting all broody and making me work twice as hard just to get you to have a conversation with me."

He muttered something under his breath.

"What was that?" she demanded.

"I said you're a pain in the arse. How does anyone put up with you?"

That actually hurt a little. She swallowed back the defensive words she wanted to shout at him and instead let out an airy laugh.

"Oh, am I getting to you?" Ginny downed her drink and waved the empty glass at him. "Maybe you should drink more too. Lose those inhibitions keeping that broomstick shoved up your arse. Who knows? You might even—" she let out an exaggerated gasp "—have fun."

He raised his eyebrow. "Weasley—" Then he paused and shook his head. "You know what, forget it. I can't be arsed being your babysitter. Do what you want."

She blinked as he stood up. "Where are you going?"

"Home."

He paid for his drinks and slung his bag over his shoulder. Ginny got to her feet, albeit a bit unsteadily. Huh, maybe she was drunker than she'd realised. That pissed her off a little. Bastard had been right. She stepped away from the stool, even as the room spun around and around.

"You alright?"

His voice came from somewhere above her spinning head. He grabbed her arm to steady her, just as he'd done in Chez Vero. She might have got a little kick out of that if she wasn't quickly descending into a belligerent mood; for all his dismissive words, he couldn't just walk away from her. As it was, even his concern pissed her off.

"I'm fine, I'm fine," she retorted, shrugging him off. "I just need to—"

She stumbled and bumped into the stool, almost knocking it over. Oops. Malfoy sighed and gripped her shoulder.

"Weasley, you're drunk," he said bluntly, steering her back to the stool. "Sit down for a bit."

She tried to twist free of his grip, but this proved too much for her spinning head. The black dots closed in on her and a high-pitched ringing started in her ears. When she next came to awareness, she thought Malfoy might have been leaning over her. He asked her for the address to where she was staying. What a stupid question. As if she could remember that.

"You must have written it down somewhere," he prompted.

Ginny's only response was to vomit—all over the both of them, in fact.

He sighed. "Typical." Arms surrounded her, lifting her up into the air. "You're just determined to make things difficult for me, aren't you?"

She almost laughed. How did he manage to echo the words that had been tossed at her face by all the people she had let down? He was digging barbs into her heart without even realising.

" _Why can't you just settle down? Why do you always have to make things so difficult?"_

A lump formed in her throat. She closed her eyes and let her mind go blank—let herself sink into the spinning darkness. It should have scared her that she almost hoped she wouldn't wake up again.


	3. Chapter 3

Something bright was shining on her face. Damn it, she must have forgotten to pull the curtain. Ginny winced and rolled over to escape the sunlight. Her hand bumped against something smooth and warm. Now that was a familiar sensation. She frowned and her eyelashes fluttered open. A man's bare back greeted her vision: the curve of his spine, the broadness of his shoulders, the way he'd thrown his arm up so he could hug and bury his face into the pillow. Not that she needed to see his face: the white-blond hair fanning his neck and shoulders told her everything. For some reason she was sharing a bed with Malfoy.

Ginny sat up and glanced at her surroundings to orient herself. This was not her hotel room. It was a little larger for one, and there were paintings stacked on the floor against the far wall. An easel was set up with a canvas featuring a half-finished picture near the window; she recognised the blues and hints of ochre as the same colours that had speckled Malfoy's skin. He had taken her back to his place. Her gaze drifted to the blond, even as she struggled to piece together her memories from last night.

"How much did I bloody drink?" she muttered under her breath.

Mercifully, her head was only throbbing a little—she was lucky that she didn't get bad hangovers all that much—but memory loss did hit her sometimes. It hit now. She didn't understand why she was in Malfoy's room or why they were in bed together. From what she remembered, their conversation hadn't gone well enough for this development. It was difficult to say whether they'd even had sex. She was still wearing her bra and knickers, and a peek under the blanket revealed that Malfoy was clad in boxer briefs. Had they tried to do the naughty? Had they just passed out like useless drunks? Hmm, now that she got a closer look at him, he had a nice body. A little on the skinny side—no doubt from not eating properly—but there was definite muscle definition. Her fingers itched to touch. Sensory indulgence was something she appreciated, and he looked rather appealing all sun-warmed skin and sleepiness.

"Hey," she murmured.

He didn't stir. She leaned over and brushed aside the strands of hair covering his neck, enjoying the soft texture. His hair was wavier than expected. Then again, maybe that was just from being tied up yesterday and then him sleeping on it. Whatever. The point was that he was asleep, she was getting restless, and there were some questions she wanted answered. Ginny blew on the exposed skin of his neck and bit back a smile when his shoulders twitched. So he wasn't in that much of a deep sleep.

"You'd better wake up," she said in his ear. "You've left yourself vulnerable to me, you know. That's dangerous."

Malfoy tried to nestle more into the pillow. She almost laughed. He was surprisingly cute. She trailed her finger down his back, creating lazy patterns on his skin. His breathing remained steady. It seemed that taunting him with ticklish sensations and caresses wasn't enough. She reached the base of his spine and nudged the blanket aside to trace the waistband of his boxer briefs.

"Still gonna sleep?" she asked.

He didn't respond. Ginny's smile widened. She knew that she could just shake him awake, but there was no fun in that. So she tugged on the elastic of his waistband—back, back, back to make it stretch. Then she let go and watched the fabric hit his skin with an audible slap. Malfoy flinched and moved the arm he'd not wrapped around the pillow in a half-hearted flop to swat her away.

"Piss off," he grumbled.

Ginny laughed. "Is that any way to talk to the woman sharing your bed?"

He grunted and shuffled away from her, then stilled and let out a breath. The bastard was trying to go back to sleep. She pursed her lips.

"Don't ignore me." She prodded his back. "We need to talk."

He twisted and rolled his shoulder, trying to escape her finger. Ginny had to admit it was kind of adorable. A sleepy Malfoy was fun to mess with, especially since he appeared to have zero energy to make her stop. Still, there were some rather important gaps in her memories. Her patience was starting to thin.

"Malfoy, I'm serious," she warned. "Get your lazy arse up now."

He let go off the pillow just enough to give her a two-fingered salute. She narrowed her eyes.

"You asked for it," she muttered.

Suddenly, she swung her leg over his body, planting her knees on either side of him. He stiffened. Not giving him a chance to react, she gripped his shoulder and forced him onto his back. His eyes snapped open to meet hers—still a little groggy. Ginny lowered herself onto his lap and pressed her hands to his chest to hold him down. Her lips curved into a smug smile as his breathing quickened; he couldn't ignore her now.

"This is sexual harassment, you know," he observed.

"Don't act like you don't enjoy it." She wriggled on his lap. "Certainly feels like you're happy to have me on top of you."

He sighed and draped his arm over his eyes. "I thought you were just drunk last night," he muttered more to himself. "Turns out you're always a pain in the arse."

A few creases formed on her brow. That did not sound like the kind of thing a guy would say about a woman he had brought home for sexy fun times. Well, not unless Malfoy was trying to become pricklier than a cactus.

"Alright," she said, losing her playful tone. "I already had my doubts, but lay it on me: did we do anything last night?"

Malfoy lowered his arm. "You're kidding, right?"

"No." Her cheeks warmed a little. "The thing is I, um, I don't remember much."

It was difficult to admit, but she had no choice but to own up to her memory loss if she wanted to get the truth from him. Fortunately, he took pity on her and confirmed that they did not have sex, nor did they so much as kiss or indulge in any kind of intimacy. Her frown deepened and she clambered off him. It didn't seem like he was lying, but some things still didn't add up.

"Then why the hell did I wake up in your bed?" she asked.

"You passed out at the bar. I wanted to drop you off at your hotel, but you couldn't remember the address, so I had no choice but to bring you here. Be grateful I even bothered. I could have just left you there."

She pulled a face. "Wait, you undressed me while I was unconscious? That's kind of creepy, Malfoy."

"Would you have preferred to sleep in your own vomit?"

Her mouth formed a small O.

"Yeah," he said flatly. "Not my idea of a turn on. I prefer my sexual partners awake and vomit free." He scrunched his nose. "You got it all over me as well."

Ginny had the grace to blush. "Sorry."

"Forget it. Anyway, I left your stuff over there." He gestured at the door where she could see her sundress, bag and sandals. "You'll have to clean them yourself."

Her brow furrowed. "About that. I'm still a little confused." She held her hands up in an appeasing gesture. "Don't get me wrong, I'm grateful you helped me out and all, but you know it would have been easier to use magic." She wiggled her eyebrows. "Unless you really did want to strip me."

The look he gave her made her feel like she'd just said one plus one equalled three.

"You're so tetchy," she complained. "I was just kidding about the stripping thing; I trust you didn't intend anything dodgy."

His expression remained unimpressed. Ginny bit back a sigh; this guy was such a useless flirt. She looped her arm around her leg so she could rest her chin on her knee.

"Seriously, though," she continued, "do you just not know any cleaning spells or something? That's pretty pathetic."

He exhaled through his nose and ran his hand through his hair. She caught a glimpse of the Dark Mark tattoo on his forearm: the familiar snake emerging from a skull's mouth and weaving around itself in an intricate design. The sight was a little jarring. She'd seen the symbol far too many times in glittering green in the sky; she remembered what it meant—all the death and misery. But, oddly, seeing the reminder on his skin didn't make her want to distance herself from him. Instead, she wondered what Malfoy thought when he saw the brand etched onto his arm. She remembered the painting Amaury had shown her and how trapped and helpless she'd felt just looking at it.

" _The whole wizarding world still sees me as a Death Eater. I think being called a slut is pretty harmless in comparison."_

Malfoy noticed where she was looking and quickly lowered his arm. Not that it made a difference. She'd seen enough. The tattoo wasn't jet-black anymore now that Voldemort had been defeated, but it was still there—still a visible red, much like Harry's lightning-shaped scar. It would never fade. Not with potions, not with spells.

Magical scars were permanent like that.

Ginny swallowed. She got the feeling that she had just stumbled into something much more complicated than a simple lack of spell knowledge. Besides, any potion maker worth their grain of salt knew how to vanish unwanted substances. Malfoy had been one of the top students in his year at Hogwarts; he should have known how to clean up a bit of vomit.

But there were always consequences for every action.

But he had been brought to court for attempted murder, and that was a serious offence regardless of age.

" _We're not the same, Weasley. Being able to say that you get it—that's a luxury. Those are the kind of pretty words a person in your position can toss around."_

Her hand reached for him before she even realised what she was doing. "Malfoy." Her voice was soft, serious. "Can you—can you even do magic now?"

Malfoy averted his face. There was a long pause. Something twisted in her stomach.

"Bloody hell," she muttered. "You really can't, can you?"

"My wand was confiscated," he admitted. "I'm not supposed to do magic for seven years; that was my sentence in place of incarceration at Azkaban." He laughed, albeit hollowly. "I've figured out so many ways to get around the punishment, but I know that's what they're waiting for: for me to slip up again; for me to give them an excuse to lock away another unwanted Death Eater."

"I'm sorry."

The words sounded cheap even to her own ears. Both of them had been raised with magic; it was just a part of them. She couldn't imagine what he must feel. All the basic things he couldn't do; all the spells he couldn't cast. It would be so frustrating, so confining. A crueller person might have said that he deserved the punishment; he had made his bed by becoming a Death Eater and now he had to lie in it. But Ginny did understand how terrifying and manipulative Voldemort could be. She had almost killed people too thanks to a little black diary. The difference was that no one had forced her to pay the consequences. Not publicly. Not with the law.

"I'm sorry," she repeated, and she meant it. "I had no idea that—I didn't think they would—" She bit her lip and shook her head. "That was tactless what I said before."

"Whatever." He moved to the edge of the bed and made to stand up. "I'm going to shower. There's food in the cupboard if you want breakfast, but otherwise leave when you want."

She grabbed his wrist. "Wait."

He frowned. "What?"

"You don't need to rush off." She tugged him gently towards her. "We're here; _I'm_ here. Who knows?" Her lips quirked into a smile. "Maybe this is fate."

"Fate?" he repeated in open scepticism.

"Sure." She shifted to her knees so that they were at eye level. "What are the chances that we'd meet in Nice of all places after all these years?"

"I'd say it's just a coincidence."

"Maybe." She brushed her fingers against his cheek, almost touching his lower lip. "But don't you think it'd be a waste to let this come to nothing?"

His brow furrowed. "Weasley—"

She pressed her lips to his before he could finish the sentence. Words weren't what was needed right now; he could use his mouth for something better. Something far sweeter. Malfoy didn't resist her, but he didn't respond either. That wasn't right.

"It's okay," she murmured, shifting closer. She placed another kiss on his lips, his jaw, moving up to his ear. "You don't have to hold back. You can kiss me, touch me. Just stop thinking and enjoy it."

His eyelashes fluttered shut. Their lips met again, slanting and parting to let their breath intermingle. To taste. It felt good when his hands skimmed her waist; when the pads of his fingers dug into her bare skin—all tingles and heightening desire. Ginny fisted her hand in his hair and deepened the kiss, guiding him down against the bed. It was easy enough to crawl onto his lap; easy enough to unhook her bra and fling the garment aside. His breathing came a little faster, and her lips curved when she caught the way his gaze lowered to her breasts. Such a guy. She knew he was turned on—could feel the hardness of his arousal digging into her. Just the sensation made her pulse jump and quicken; made heat pool between her thighs and grow slick in anticipation. It wouldn't be long now. Foreplay was so overrated; she wanted him inside her.

But then their eyes met and something shifted in his expression. He sighed and flopped back against the bed. Ginny froze. She felt like fingernails had just been dragged down a chalkboard.

"What?" she asked, sitting up straighter. "What's wrong?"

It wasn't like he'd lost his erection. They were all good to go as far as she was concerned.

Malfoy draped his arm over his eyes. "Why are you doing this, Ginevra?"

She noted that he called her by her first name instead of the usual "Weasley". It made his question sound more serious. Not that she understood what he was trying to get at.

"Why not?" she said with a shrug. "It seems like you need this, and if I'm okay with it then what's the problem?" She tugged his arm away from his face and smiled down at him. "We're both adults. Do we really need a reason to enjoy ourselves?"

This seemed to be the wrong thing to say. He sighed again and pushed her off him, though not at all roughly. Ginny could only blink. What in the actual hell?

"Um," she said, watching him sit up. "Am I missing something?"

"Just go," he muttered.

Her cheeks warmed. "You're kidding, right?"

She wasn't wearing a bra and had been all ready to tug off her knickers and spread her legs for him, yet here he was telling her to piss off like an unwanted salesperson. It was humiliating. It was infuriating. Never mind the thwarted sexual desire.

"Are you actually doing this to me right now?" she demanded.

The cool look he gave her said yes. She clenched her hands into fists.

"You—you—" She spluttered for a moment and then made a frustrated sound. "What is _wrong_ with you? You wanted this! Don't tell me that you didn't! You kissed me back and—"

"I shouldn't have done that," he admitted. "That was stupid."

"Stupid?" She wanted to laugh. "What's stupid is that you just ruined a perfectly good moment. I don't get it. I don't get you. You're acting like some prissy, fourteen-year-old virgin. Why are you denying yourself what you want?"

He shook his head. "Forget it."

"Fuck your forget its! You're just a—"

"Oh, enough!" he snapped. "This isn't even about me! This is about you!"

She blinked. "Me?"

"Yes." His gaze was unflinching. "You, Ginevra Weasley. You're a mess. You're a fucking turn off."

She almost flinched. "W-what?"

"I'm just not that desperate," he said simply. "Not like you."

All the blood rushed to her cheeks. "Fuck you, Malfoy, you—"

He caught her hand before she could hit him.

"—bastard," she ended on a hitch.

There was a lump in her throat. It burned. Malfoy tightened his grip on her hand, though it wasn't painful. He forced her to lower her arm and only released her when he was sure she wouldn't try to hit him again. Ginny couldn't bring herself to meet his eyes. There was a tense pause.

"I'm not desperate," she said in a low voice. "It's not like I go around sleeping with every guy who comes my way."

"So I just imagined you wanting to shag Amaury last night?"

A bitter laugh escaped her lips. "Is that what this is about? You're all pissy because I was interested in Amaury first?" Her throat constricted. "Why don't you just go ahead and call me a slut while you're at it? It's what you're thinking, right?"

"No," he said with surprising gentleness. "It's really not."

Her eyes flickered to his in surprise.

Malfoy sighed and draped the blanket around her shoulders to cover her breasts. "Do you think I wouldn't notice? You're not desperate for sex; you're desperate because you're floundering. It's like you're always looking for something, right? A new fix, a new kick—any kind of distraction to make you stop thinking, to make you stop _looking_ , because you're so scared that you might never find what you actually want."

She swallowed against the burning lump. "What a load of bollocks."

"Is it?" He shook his head. "I think we both know I'm right. That's why I won't do this. Not with you. I won't be your quick fix. I won't help you to become more pathetic than what you already are." He held her gaze. "You're better than this, Ginevra."

Little prickles stung the corners of her eyes. "Why do you even care? It's not like we were ever friends."

"You're right." A humourless smile curved his lips. "You are absolutely right. I shouldn't give a damn about you. You're a pain in the arse and I don't know why I can't just leave you alone to deal with your messes. Merlin knows I want to." He clenched his hands into fists. "But that's the thing. I can't walk away—not from you. You piss me off. You remind me of everything I've lost, but the truth is you piss me off even more because I've done the same as you too many times. I've been living on distractions and excess; it's all I have, and you know what? If even the good guys who won the war and are supposed to be on top of this world can't find happiness, then what was the fucking point of it all? Why did any of us fight?"

She let out a breath. "Are you saying you'd prefer it if Voldemort had won?"

"No." He exhaled and ran his hand through his hair. "Fuck no; that monster was insane. But do I wish I had a better life? Yes. That's why it pisses me off that you're even here with me. I'm a branded ex-Death Eater; I got the rotten end of the deal when the Dark Lord was defeated, but you actually have a chance." He shook his head. "You don't have to live like me, Ginevra. So stop pissing around like you're so helpless and fix yourself."

Her eyes narrowed. "What do you know? You don't know anything about me, so—"

"So just shut up?" He met her gaze steadily. "Fine, then go ahead and tell me why you're here. Why were you willing to have sex with me instead of someone who actually matters to you? What is it you want? Because if it's not a quick fix to block out the world and make you feel better, then what is it?"

Her hands trembled. She wanted to yell at him—to prove that she wasn't a pathetic mess—but her throat was too choked.

"Well?" he prompted. "What's your answer? What do you fucking want?"

"I don't know, alright!" The words were wrenched out of her. "I don't know what I want! You're right. I'm a mess. I drink too much, I sleep around, I never live up to expectations, and I don't know why I can't stop! I just—I just—" Her voice wobbled. "I just want to—"

Something hot spilled down her cheeks. She turned away in horror and swiped frantically at her face. No way was she going to cry in front of him. No bloody way. But the tears wouldn't stop. They kept coming and coming, and then it was hard to breathe, because the truth was hard to swallow and he had shoved it down her throat with no apology. No more looking away, no more pretty gloss, no more justifications. Reality was a bitch, and it told her that she was miserable; it made her see that she was living her life like she was in a broom race with no finish, and all that hedonistic urge to go faster and faster was just setting her on course for an ugly crash. Hell, she'd even come to Nice to get her life on track and had only ended up making the same mistakes.

Same old fleeting distractions.

Same old story of waking up in another's bed and not remembering half of the night before.

It sucked. It sucked so bad to realise he was right. It sucked even more to find herself falling apart in front of him. If only she could stop the tears.

Malfoy sighed and placed his hand on her head. "Just cry," he said, pulling her towards him. "I hear it's supposed to be cathartic."

She hiccupped on a little sob and buried her face against his chest. He didn't say anything—no soothing nonsense, no reassuring words. They sat in silence, even as she put her snot and tears all over his chest. It was a display of thoughtfulness she had not expected from him: the fact he'd recognised she didn't want him to see her cry, the fact he knew she needed comfort, so he'd solved both by letting her hide against him. Ginny appreciated the gesture more than she cared to admit. It had been so long since someone had held her like this: platonically, just trying to calm her down rather than arouse. It made her feel warm in a different way. Innocent. Simple.

"Why are you being so nice to me?" she asked after a while. Her voice was small. "I thought I just piss you off."

"Would you rather I kick you out?"

"No."

His breath ruffled her hair. "Then don't question it. I don't really know why either."

Ginny closed her eyes and wrapped her arms around him. It wasn't like she wanted him to pull away. He made her feel as if she was a sun-starved plant who had found a tiny sliver of light—like some of the emptiness inside her had finally been satisfied. How strange that it should be Draco Malfoy of all people who should inspire such feelings. How strange that having him hold her should feel so right. But then he wasn't that bratty boy anymore. He was different, more mature. He understood her like no one else ever had.

But it did make her wonder about him.

"Malfoy," she said after another moment of silence, "why won't you go public with your art?"

He shifted slightly. "You're asking me that now?"

"Humour me."

He exhaled in an exaggerated manner. "Why does it matter?"

"You're good. Amaury even thinks you could make a career out of it."

"Yeah, in the Muggle world."

His tone sounded bitter.

"Is that really all that's stopping you?" she asked.

He was quiet for a moment. She wondered if he would answer her at all, but then the words came, soft and surprisingly vulnerable.

"It feels too much like giving up if I choose to go Muggle," he admitted. "All my ambitions—I never doubted I would be able to achieve those things." He shrugged. "I guess I'm just not ready to accept that the future I thought I would have isn't going to happen."

She drew circular patterns on his chest. "What do you want to be?"

"It doesn't matter now."

"Don't say that." She sat up to meet his gaze. "I know you didn't exactly get the winning hand when it came to dishing out rewards and punishments after Voldemort's defeat, but you're still Draco fucking Malfoy." Her lips curved into a smile. "I think your instincts are right: you shouldn't give up. You're still stupidly wealthy, you're smarter than most, and in a few years you'll have your wand again as well. What's there to stop you?"

"Uh, everyone distrusts me."

"So?" She raised her eyebrow. "When has that ever stopped you? Believe me, people didn't trust you before either."

He actually laughed. "You suck at this pep talk thing, you know."

"Yet here you are smiling."

Malfoy rolled his eyes. Ginny had an odd urge to kiss him again, but she resisted the impulse. He wouldn't understand. Even she didn't understand.

"I like it when you smile," she said instead. She traced the curve of his mouth with her finger. "I'm glad I got to see a real one."

"You are so weird."

"Maybe," she admitted, and then she sighed and let her hand drop back to her lap. "I don't know what I'm doing anymore. I'm a little jealous of you, to be honest. At least you know what you want, even if you haven't got it yet."

He leaned back on his palms. "You'll figure it out."

"Will I?" The lump was back in her throat. "Everyone else seems to have a spark—something that drives them and gives them purpose. Even you have a dream you don't want to give up on. But I've got nothing. I'm just drifting."

"So start from the basics," he suggested. "What do you like?"

"Huh?"

"Don't give me that face." He tapped her lightly on the forehead. "Think. What do you like to do? What makes you happy?"

"What makes me happy," she repeated.

Ginny closed her eyes and let his words guide her thoughts. She wasn't really sure anymore. The war had changed so much—had changed her so much. Once, all she had cared about was getting Harry Potter to love her. She'd lived for him, lost herself in him, but in the end they were like two puzzle pieces that didn't fit together. No matter how much she tried to bank her happiness on their relationship—to make things work—he just left her with a bigger hole of dissatisfaction. Never quite enough. Never quite right.

Even the saviour of the wizarding world couldn't give her a happily ever after.

Hadn't there been something before?

Hadn't she ever felt a thrill of excitement for something that wasn't just an insubstantial kick?

Ginny clenched her hands into fists. She had been a child stuffed with fairy tale dreams; she had never given herself a chance to explore what she wanted outside of love, but then a memory did flicker in her mind: six years old and breaking into the family broom shed to fly because her brothers had never let her play with him. She saw her old room: posters of the Weird Sisters everywhere, but even more of Gwenog Jones—a homage to the Holyhead Harpies captain and her childhood idol. She remembered how much fun she'd had playing as Chaser at Hogwarts. The physicality, the triumph of outwitting the other team and scoring goals.

Her lips curved into a soft smile. "Quidditch," she said, opening her eyes. "I like Quidditch."

Malfoy stood up from the bed. "There you go. Start with that."

Ginny watched as he headed for the bathroom. He again told her to help herself to any food if she was hungry, but this time when he said she could leave whenever, she got the sense he was also inviting her to stay. Her expression softened and she clutched the blanket closer to her chest.

"Thanks," she murmured. "I'll do that."

He nodded and shut himself in the bathroom. Ginny fell back against the pillows and almost laughed. Of all the people. Of all the bloody people.

"Maybe it really was fate," she mused.

Draco Malfoy had opened her eyes to a path of possibilities when she had begun to believe there was nothing but dead ends. It was so strange, so unexpected. She couldn't believe their meeting in Nice was just a coincidence; that this inexplicable connection that made them stick together instead of taking the selfish route should amount to nothing. So she decided she would stay—not because he was a nice distraction, but because it just made sense.

He made her feel like the ground under her feet was finally solid. She didn't want to lose that just yet.


	4. Chapter 4

Ginny opened the door to the small apartment and kicked off her sandals, already making herself at home as she placed her bag on the bench and fished out the food and drink she had bought. She approached the blond seated in front of the easel and pressed the cold, slightly damp can to his cheek. Malfoy swore and flinched away from her.

"For you," she said with a grin.

He gave her an unimpressed look and took the can. "You could have knocked."

"It's not my fault you were too off in your own head to notice me come in. Besides, you're the one who left your door unlocked."

"That doesn't mean you should just walk in."

"Yeah, yeah." She waved off his grumbling with her hand. "Just say thank you already. I got you some sandwiches as well; they're on the bench. Figured you forgot to make yourself lunch again."

He got that pouty look that suggested he wanted to stay grumpy at her but was secretly pleased she had thought of him all the same. Still, it took him a few seconds before he mumbled out a thank you. Ginny almost laughed. He was always so grudging.

She leaned on his shoulders and peered over him to look at the picture he was painting: an almost surreal blend of colours that reminded her of being underwater—fluid, beautiful, yet with the potential to be suffocating. The painting was intense, as was his style, but looking at it was oddly soothing at the same time. She recognised it as the same picture that had sat on the easel the first time she'd woken up in his hotel room.

"Still working on this one, huh?" she observed.

"I work on it when I feel like it." He placed the palette down and stuck his brush in the jar of water to join the others. "It's better not to rush."

Ginny made a humming sound and stared at the painting. She remembered what Amaury had said: how art was an expression; how the colours used, the perspective, every little thing depicted on the canvas was a part of the artist's voice. She wondered what this piece was supposed to say. It was so abstract—such a blend of light and dark—but she was inexplicably drawn to it. Much like she was drawn to him, she guessed.

"Does it have a name?" she asked.

He went quiet.

Ginny slung her arms around him and rested her chin on his head. "C'mon," she coaxed. "You might as well tell me. You know I'll just nag it out of you."

"Pain in the arse," he muttered.

She made a show of acting surprised, big eyes and all. "I don't think that's a good title for your painting. You should probably change it."

Malfoy snorted and pushed her arms off him. "Bint."

She laughed, though she sobered a moment later. "Seriously, though, I'm curious. You must have given it a name."

He stood up from the stool and walked to the bench. " _Catharsis_."

"Hrm?"

"The title," he explained, picking up the sandwiches she had bought for him and opening the wrapper. "It's _Catharsis._ "

Ginny stared back at the painting. " _Catharsis_ , huh?"

She could see how that worked. The painting was a little chaotic and dark, yet there was a sense of order and peace as well. The brewing greys like clouds that crowded and writhed; the blue shades and swirls of teal that burst into ochre and burnt orange—a rupture of colour and emotion. Then there was the warmth of the palest yellows that he had begun to put in to soften the overall image, like light seeping through to calm the storm. It was a purge, a release. It really was a catharsis.

"I like it," she said.

He bit into the sandwich and leaned against the bench, watching her in that contemplative way of his. She had to resist the urge to move closer. The impulse was always there: to touch him, to be near him—not so much sexually; he just made her feel calm. She liked that. The problem was that she was beginning to think she might like it a little too much. It had been a week since that morning she had woken up in bed with him—since he'd let her have her own catharsis against his chest in an embarrassing display of snot and tears—but their relationship had remained frustratingly undefined. She kept coming over to see him and he didn't turn her away, but that was about it. They hadn't kissed again or even done anything remotely intimate.

Were they friends? Was she anything to him at all aside from a woman he'd taken pity on?

Ginny sat on the stool he had vacated. "How long do you think you'll stay here?" she asked.

He shrugged. "Until I've had enough, I guess. I was planning to continue to Italy after this."

"Italy, huh?" She leaned forward on her palms, half-swaying as she lowered her gaze to the floor. "Sounds nice."

Malfoy opened the can of drink and took a sip. "What about you? You were just here on holiday, right?"

"Yeah."

What she didn't say was that she was supposed to have left two days ago. Admitting as much would make her feel too exposed, too vulnerable. He would see right through her. Hell, she couldn't even bring herself to call him by his first name because she was worried she would reveal too much. Ginny was good at enjoying fleeting pleasures; she wasn't so good at handling emotions of actual substance.

She drew patterns on the wooden floor with her toe. "I thought I'd go back and start training for Quidditch. Maybe try out for the Holyhead Harpies next time there's an opening."

"For Seeker?"

She shook her head. "Chaser. I always liked that position more."

He nodded and continued eating the sandwich.

"I don't know if I'll get in," she admitted. "I'm already older than most people starting their Quidditch career."

"Talent is more important than age. You'll get in."

Her eyes darted to his in surprise. His mouth did that twitchy-smile thing.

"I remember you," he said simply. "You were a good player. I'm sure you'll be fine, Ginevra."

Her stomach fluttered. It was like being ten years old all over again: the innocent rush of feelings; the heat that wanted to rise to her cheeks. He kept taking her off guard like this. She bit her lip and went back to tracing pictures on the floor.

"Maybe," she said in an even tone. "I'll give it my best anyway."

Malfoy tilted his head to the side. "Is everything okay?"

She froze. "Why do you ask?"

He shrugged. "You seem different today."

Ginny let out a breath. She flattened her feet against the floor and straightened to meet his gaze. Then she fixed a smile to her lips—a little flippant, no cracks. "Careful, Malfoy. If you keep saying things like that I might start to think you care."

"You think I don't?"

Her heartbeat stuttered. "W-what?"

He met her gaze frankly. "Do you think I'd let you come here every day if you bothered me that much?"

"I dunno." She went back to swaying on the stool, kicking her feet up in the air like a little kid. "You haven't exactly said you like me coming here either."

If she were to be honest, her biggest fear was that he viewed her like a stray cat who'd wandered into his life: he had enough empathy to let her in and give her a bit of attention, but it wasn't like the door would always be open.

Malfoy finished the sandwich and picked up the other one. "You're a pain in the arse sometimes, but you're not terrible company." He held up the bread stuffed with ham and cheese. "And you bring me food, so there's that."

She scrunched her nose. "I'm hoping in Malfoy Language that is actually a compliment, because it doesn't sound all that flattering."

"Relax. All I'm saying is you're not bad."

"Saying I'm 'not bad' isn't exactly a winner either. I mean, how would you feel if we had sex and I said it was not bad?"

He gave her an amused look. "You're really not going to let this go, are you?"

"I'm just saying."

His mouth twitched, but he didn't say anything and continued eating. Ginny was more frustrated by his reticence than she cared to admit. Bastard was determined not to spell out what he thought of her. In truth, though, she was more annoyed at herself for even caring so much. Every day her feelings for him grew stronger, her impulses got that much harder to resist. She worried that she would do something stupid if they continued this way. It would be all too easy to tip the balance. Even now the words she wanted to say gathered on the tip of her tongue, threatening to spill.

 _Will you come back to England? Will you stay with me?_

Ginny sighed and stood up. "I might go."

"In such a rush?"

He almost sounded disappointed. Almost. It was also possible she was just hearing what she wanted. She walked over and reached past him to grab her bag from the bench, her body brushing against his ever so lightly. It was difficult not to press closer.

"My world doesn't revolve around you," she said, pulling back to meet his gaze. "You'll have to give me a good reason if you want me to stay."

She said the words flippantly, but underneath her teasing was an honest desire for him to do just that: to tell her to stay a little longer; to hold her in his arms as he'd done; to confess that he wanted her by his side as much as she wanted him. Malfoy's brow furrowed and he placed the half-eaten sandwich on the bench. The mood seemed to shift with that simple gesture, becoming so much more intense. Suddenly, she knew that this was a mistake. She felt too vulnerable, too tempted.

"Ginevra—"

Her heart quickened. No, no, no. She didn't want to hear what he said next. Not when they were this close. Not when he was making her body so hyperaware of his proximity. She needed to back up—to get the hell out now—because all she could think was that it sounded so nice when he said her name; that his mouth was right there, tauntingly soft, and all she had to do was lean up on her tiptoes and—

Their lips touched before she even realised what she was doing. Her eyes widened. She broke away in an instant and lowered her gaze. Malfoy stood perfectly still.

"Want to tell me what that was for?" he asked.

Ginny almost winced. He probably thought she was up to her old tricks again. She shifted on her feet. The silence dragged on.

"Ginevra—"

"What if I said I just wanted to do it?" she asked in a low voice, still not meeting his eyes. "Would you be put off?"

"That would depend." He tilted her chin up, forcing her to look at him. "I told you I won't be your quick fix."

"You're not."

"Then why did you kiss me?"

Her breathing fragmented. Merlin, he was so close. Her senses were overwhelmed by him: his touch, his scent, his simple presence. It was hard to think straight.

"I like the way you make me feel," she confessed. "It's different with you."

"How so?"

She closed her eyes. His voice was almost hypnotic, edged with a huskiness that made her stomach flutter.

"Warm," she said softly. "Alive. Like I'm all upside down yet the ground under my feet has never felt more solid."

"Sounds pretty serious."

"I think it is." She bit her lip. "Do you think that's bad?"

"Maybe. Most people would tell you to stay away from me. They'd say I'm not a good fit."

A smile tugged at her mouth. "I'm not exactly the poster girl for good conduct."

"But you're not like me either. You don't have to be dragged down to my level."

"I don't see it that way." She touched his arm where the Dark Mark tattoo had faded and scarred. "I don't care who you were; I only care who you are now—how you make me feel." She nudged her cheek against his, lips almost brushing in a graze-like kiss. "I like you, Draco. I really, really like you. Tell me you feel the same."

His hand slipped into her hair. "Idiot," he murmured. "We wouldn't be having this conversation if I didn't."

Then he kissed her. He kissed her as if he wanted to awaken every inch of her to him: her body, her soul. It was a rush of tingles, flutters and fire. It felt good. Perfect even. Her blood pounded in her ears and she looped her arms around his neck. She didn't want to let go; didn't want this moment to end when she had finally, finally realised why she was so drawn to him.

All that searching, all that drifting like a ship without an anchor. It had all stopped with him.

"Don't go to Italy," she pleaded in between kisses. "Come back to England with me."

His arm tightened around her waist. "You're serious, aren't you?"

"Yes." She kissed his jaw, his neck. "Yes." Her mouth found a particularly sensitive spot near his pulse. "I like you; I don't want to leave you."

His fingers dug into her lower back. "Do you even understand what you'd be getting yourself into with me? No one will approve—not my family, not yours, no one."

"I told you I don't care about that." She pulled back to meet his gaze. "I don't care what anyone thinks. All I care about is what _you_ think. Do you want to be with me or not?"

His chest rose and fell quickly. She could feel that he was aroused, but that didn't mean anything. It was whether she'd touched his heart that mattered; it was whether he liked her as much as she liked him. Draco took her face in his hands and kissed her deeply.

"Alright," he said. "Italy never appealed much anyway."

Ginny smiled. They kissed again—soft like a promise, like there was no rush at all—and then he just held her in his arms. She closed her eyes and relaxed into the embrace. Of course she knew it would not be smooth sailing for either of them from here; Draco was right that their relationship would be frowned upon by, well, everyone. In fact, there would probably be many, many obstacles. But that didn't matter. She knew that they could make it work. They had to. Everything in her whispered that this was right; that the man holding her now was her perfect fit.

He was her spark, the anchor that kept her grounded. She would be a fool to let that go.


End file.
